


One Second and a Million Miles

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual John Watson, Canon Compliant, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Heavy Angst, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Inspired by Music, John Watson Makes A Choice, Love Confessions, M/M, One Second and a Million Miles, POV Sherlock Holmes, Regretful John Watson, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, The Bridges Of Madison County, The Stag Night (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-04 17:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16351100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Neither Sherlock nor John had expected the stag night to end in the bedroom. In the aftermath, after years of silence, Sherlock finds the courage to confess the depth of his love for John. With everything on the line, he cannot afford to hold back now.In light of these confessions, John is forced to make a critical decision.





	1. Always Better

**Author's Note:**

> If you imagine the drunken case and morning in jail never occurred, you can imagine this is canon. However, since those things did happen, this is sort of a "what-if" for that evening.
> 
> This work is inspired by the beautiful song "One Second and a Million Miles" by Jason Robert Brown. Not to worry, you do not need to be familiar with it to enjoy this work.

Everything. All that there is, all that ever was.

Everything lay next to him now, blond hair an untidy tumble of exquisite beauty, facial features lax in sleep, the gentle signs of aging indenting themselves along the curves of skin. John was everything. From the smallest joys on Earth to the greatest sorrows, from the color red to the birds that flew in the sky, John was everything. None of it meant absolutely anything without him.

His life without John had been no life at all; an endless blur of coping mechanisms, purposefully denying joy, and reveling in the pain he would cause himself in an effort to feel something.

John was a prism in his life, scattering color and beauty onto everything in sight. John was his guiding light, his conductor of light, his spotlight of truth. He had spent years learning how to be honest with the man who changed it all.

Now, for the first time in his life, he was not outside the moment with a lens of analytical cynicism between himself and the world. He thought he knew now, for the first time in his life, he was a part of something.

Sherlock raised a long finger to the rebellious lock of hair that escaped from the others. Using the greatest amount of care he possessed, he placed the hair back with the others, watching with benign pleasure as it proceeded to immediately fall back over his forehead.

Sherlock could not bear to sleep on this perfect night, knowing it may be the only one he ever had with the man he loved so ardently. He pushed back tears at the thought, recalling the woman who was home at this moment, blissful in her knowledge that John would marry her. No, he would not sleep this night. Not when John was resting in the cradle of Sherlock’s elbow, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, the burning pain foreign but unmistakable. He would be damned if he let John walk out of here like this night meant nothing.

As John slept, his stomach rising and falling in perfect rhythm, Sherlock watched intently. Minutes fell away into hours as Sherlock took in every perfect detail of their arrangement and committed it to memory.

John stirred, on the brink of consciousness before the early morning light began to break. At the restless twitching of toes, lightly fluttering eyelids, and soft groan that emitted from John, Sherlock was distinctly aware of his own heart, elevating to nearly twice its normal pace. He was not even particularly aware that his lungs had stopped taking in air until John’s eyes fluttered open and he watched his pupils dilate Sherlock into focus. When a delicate smile crossed the face of John Watson, Sherlock let out the immense gust of air he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The worst part of Sherlock’s mind, the part that was always imagining the worst case scenario, had feared John would wake in a panic, frantic to leave Sherlock the moment he awoke and recalled what had happened. But, thankfully, he merely smiled up at Sherlock, the small muscle movement filling his heart with a bouancy that was new to him.

“Morning,” John said, tone hushed and coated with sleep. He moved closer, leaning his head further back to nuzzle Sherlock’s chin with the tip of his nose. The effect of the touch was instantaneous, his heart fluttering up his throat while his stomach performed a dangerous series of summersaults.

“Good morning, John,” replied Sherlock. He had wanted to sound calm and collected, like he hadn’t been staring at the man for the past five hours. However, the tone that escaped him was distinctly smitten.

A lazy hum escaped from between closed lips as John snuggled closer to Sherlock’s bare chest. Every precaution screaming at him to stop, Sherlock moved with excessive caution to wrap his arms around the back of the man he loved. When the initial results proved promising, he wrapped himself more tightly around John, pulling him closer until Sherlock imagined he could feel John’s heart beat against his skin.

John seemed to appreciate the motion, planting several sleepy kisses along Sherlock’s neck in response. Without reason, without warning, the burning of tears returned to his eyes. He allowed himself, now, after hours of staring, to close his eyes. He rested his chin on top of John’s head, the scent of him making Sherlock feel as though he was drunk on love.

“I think,” John said, voice muffled as the words were spoken into Sherlock’s chest, “this is the most extraordinary stag night in history.”

He couldn’t explain it, but the words caused an unpleasant stirring in his stomach.

“I don’t do anything less than extraordinary,” said Sherlock with a confidence he didn’t feel.

“You truly don’t, you wonderful, amazing man.”

A long silence stretched after the words. Despite the silence, he knew John wasn’t asleep due to the irregular nature of his breathing. He allowed the silence, though there were about a million things he wanted to say. Instead, he ran through every series of words he had ever wanted to speak aloud, prepared to say them if the opportunity came. He wouldn’t allow himself to stay silent- not anymore.

Finally, so softly Sherlock almost couldn’t believe he heard it, John said, “I don’t ever want to let go of you. I rather think I could stay like this forever.”

The words were screaming to get out, pounding at the door of his vocal chords, but still, they came out slowly, almost not coming out at all. “I think I cannot let go, John. You should know… you’ve connected me with happiness such as I have never known. You’ve surrounded me, filling my life with color and joy I may never know again.”

Silence followed, unbearable to endure. Again, his breath remained stubbornly frozen in his own chest. It was as though the words were echoing around him, frozen in the air until he was suffocating. The silence between them spread into an insufferable torture, and Sherlock was now certain that every word he had spoken had been a meter dug deeper into his own grave.

John took in a large breath after some time, alerting Sherlock’s heart to the fact that he was about to speak. “Why do you say my name so much? Much more often than anybody else says it, even more than you say anybody else’s, you say it. Why?”

The question disoriented him, a distinct talent that John possessed. “Why do I say your name?” he repeated blankly.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock took time to consider it, attempting to remind himself he didn’t need to lie- not anymore. It was a challenging habit to break for someone who was so comfortable with hiding the truth. “John, your name is like beautiful art. I say it softly and it’s as though there is music playing. If I say it loudly, it’s as though I am praying. John, your name fills every gap that has ever existed, cured every illness. It’s brought to my attention the power of words, the power of- of love.”

John pulled away quite suddenly, the motion causing a sharp panic to rise in Sherlock. But he simply pulled away enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes, his hands remaining delicately on Sherlock’s chest, fingers softly dancing along the sensitive skin.

In John’s eyes, Sherlock found sincerity, understanding, longing, and- much to his surprise- a glistening that betrayed John’s emotions.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, the word barely audible but strengthening Sherlock’s resolve. It was now, he knew it was. He needed to say it. Now.

“John,” he tore John’s strong hands from his chest and clasped them tightly between his own delicate ones. He stared deep into the man’s eyes until he felt an intensity he had never experienced before. “For the first time in my life, it’s as though a channel has opened and you’re the one who let it all flow freely. There is absolutely nothing to contain my love, nothing to contain _us_ , John. For the first time in my life, I wish to be vulnerable. For the first time in my life, I am risking something precious. I am asking you, John, to stay with me.”

His voice cracked while the request escaped him, so terrified of the response before the words were even out. John had remained motionless, transfixed by his words until the request came out. He blinked furiously, lips pursing into a hard line as he broke eye contact with Sherlock.

“Sherlock-” he started, and the note of regret in his tone threw Sherlock’s heart into a flurry of panicked activity that was completely unparalleled by any other that has ever been uttered.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock, his panic coloring his voice with unsteady urgency. “Listen- Just- I don’t know what the future holds. Who could ever? All I know is- in all the time from man’s first breath until God’s last warning- you and I are just one second. We are spinning past each other for this moment- this one split second. Right now, right here, you and I have only this one second together. But together, we have a million more miles to go.”

Somehow, by some miracle, John’s eyes found Sherlock’s again. His eyes were brimming with apparent tears, his hands shaking in Sherlock’s.

His voice when he spoke was sparse and terrified. “I don’t want to go back to a world without this.” He said the last word with a deliberate shake of the both of their hands. He gave a defeated shrug, but Sherlock could not figure out why. For the words had elated Sherlock’s heart to unknown heights.

“All I need,” said Sherlock in a whisper loaded with a hope he was terrified to have, “In fact, all I’ve ever needed- my whole life- is you.”

In response, John stretched himself to reach Sherlock and, although he was expecting it, his heart skipped multiple beats when John’s mouth met his own. Sherlock’s eyes fell slowly, the sensation of John on his tongue filling him with a dizzying delight. His mouth was warm, firm, and beautifully commanding. Sherlock allowed his lips to succumb to every subtle movement of John’s own. There was a gentle quality to it that hadn’t been there last night when their motions had been desperate, frenzied, and rushed.

Unbidden, Sherlock felt himself expand against John’s bare skin beneath the blanket they shared. If John noticed, though, he didn’t let on. Their embrace continued, their hands exploring the bodies of each other. After a blissful eternity, John’s lips left Sherlock’s so slowly, they were connected until the very edges of their lips were pulled apart by nothing other than the physics of the universe.

“If I left it- all of it- behind…” John said softly, the breath of the words flooding Sherlock’s mouth.

“Look at me,” Sherlock softly commanded, willing his eyes to convey the sincerity of his words to the beautiful man laying next to him. “We’ve both searched our whole lives for how to be whole. Together we are pieces of a puzzle that fall into completion.”

John shook his head slowly, the motion conflicting with the eye contact he maintained with Sherlock across that impossibly long intimate moment. “It’s… challenging, you know. It’s hard for me to… tell you how I feel. That is, how I feel the same way toward you.”

Sherlock’s mouth was on his again before he could think it through, attempting to provide John with a channel through which he could express the breadth of his feelings. It worked. John’s passion came through effortlessly as their bodies moved together in their embrace, their mouths parting to explore one another.

“My life,” gasped John, face flushed red with the rush of their embrace, “has been completely divided in half.”

“What?” asked Sherlock, bewildered and mind racing at the apparent sudden turn of mood. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there is my life before you and there is my life after you. My life before you was nothing but aimless wandering, lost in ambition and love.”

“Stay with me,” whispered Sherlock, placing his forehead against John’s, closing his eyes and attempting to throw every emotion he was experiencing into the three short words.

“My heart was icy, cold, and closed before you,” continued John as though he had not spoken. “Since you’ve entered my life, it’s been an entirely different existence. I’m happier, life is fuller. I’m not quite as sour toward it all. I eat now, my memories hold less horror than they used to.”

“Stay with me,” begged Sherlock in a tone whispered below breath. A fresh burning returned to his eyes when he said the words, the sincerity of his longing filling every crevice of his existence such as he had never known before.

John’s hands ripped out of his own, the ghost of their touch remaining as his whole body tore away from Sherlock’s. His body rolled suddenly off the bed and before Sherlock’s love-drunk mind could figure out what was happening, John stood exposed before him, though he seemed barely aware of his naked form. His hands raked through his hair, his eyes raking around the room that he knew so well.

“How?” asked John. The word held more emotion than Sherlock had ever heard in the man's voice. In the lonely word was a world of pain and conflict. It broke under his uncertainty and Sherlock felt his hands turn clammy in the absence of John’s warmth. Sherlock sat up, his blanket falling to expose his chest but resting comfortably around his hips as he stared bewildered at John.

“W-What?”

“How?” repeated John, throwing more weight behind the word this time. “How do I stay with you? How do I leave Mary and come to be with you? How do I pack my bags, close a door on everything I know? How do I lock that door and walk confidently away to be with you?”

Sherlock had no answer but his mouth hung open in shock.

“You _left,_ Sherlock. I loved you more deeply than you can ever possibly know and you _left_. What was I supposed to do? I moved on, I’ve found a lovely woman who I have accepted as my future. Then you came back and everything has changed. But you- God, you want to pretend it hasn’t."

“Look at me," John continued. "Look at everything I’ve gotten myself into, and look at the life I’ve built for myself. Once you do that, I need you to tell me: do you know something I don’t? Because I see no way to be with you. How can I possibly stay with you? How do I leave everything behind? How do I tell people-”

John’s head fell into his left hand, raised to wrap around his temples and covering his eyes completely. Until distinctly cold moisture fell against Sherlock’s cheek, he wasn’t aware of the tears that had begun to overflow in his own eyes.

He began to consider the idea of back peddling; providing John with mindless assurances that would bring him back into the bed. But no, Sherlock knew it wasn’t a viable option. He was in too deep to go back now. He wasn’t able to go back and chose silence. The only option was to go forward, to provide a case that John couldn't argue with.

“I can’t tell you what the answer will be,” said Sherlock, staring where John’s eyes were despite their coverage. He wanted John, whenever he looked up, to see his emotional sincerity in every word. “That’s impossible.” A deep breath steadied his next words. “But this thing between us- John, it’s bigger than what we can see.”

John lowered his hand then, his eyes connecting with Sherlock’s only under the hood of lowered eyes.

“This is destiny, John. Consider all we’ve been through, all we have suffered to wind up here: finally, happily, miraculously together. What we share can never be reversed, what we’ve been through cannot be rewound. We are tied together as one, locked in love and fate, we are bound together. Whatever fate the heavens are weaving- which I have never believed in before I met you- I refuse to play any part in breaking it. _Stay with me._ ”

There is was. All of Sherlock’s feelings were laid before the both of them. Having entirely exposed himself in body and emotion, there was nothing more to do but wait with baited breath.

John’s hands clenched at his sides, his head shaking several times to clear thoughts Sherlock could not read. After taking several silent steps toward the door, he stopped. The physical manifestation of the conflict within himself was resulting in dangerous stunts performed by Sherlock’s insides.

“We could have ignored what we were feeling,” said John through a strained voice such as Sherlock had never heard. “I could have prayed to God that my longing for you went away. I could have refused you and never known love like ours existed in this world.”

“But?” he responded breathlessly.

“But I loved you.”

Sherlock’s head went limp and hung instantly upon hearing the words, tears flowing heavy and free from his eyes. He possessed no will to stop them. It was happening. John loved him.

“But-” said John with such pain in the word that Sherlock felt the pain in equal measure. His head jerked up so rapidly that his neck ached with the motion.

“But?” shot Sherlock with more venom than he intended.

“But…” he gulped, the next words flowing out of his quite quickly. “But I could also leave Mary, abandon our family and future. I could abandon my life to uncertainty, give in to temptation and forsake a life of safety. I could be with you and accept all the pain that entails.”

Sherlock’s ears pounded with rushing blood. His voice was hoarse, terrified as he asked again, “But?”

“You said it yourself; we are just one second.”

“No,” gasped Sherlock, panic creeping around the edges of his vision. John was too far away from him, too close to leaving. John needed to be with him, needed to stay with him. Under no circumstances could he allow John to walk away using Sherlock’s own words as logic to leave. “I said we have a million miles to go.”

“No.” The word was a dagger in his heart, allowing his very existence to seep out of him instantaneously. “Sherlock, our separate lives have a million miles to go. But you and I… you and I are just one second.”

A series of tremors flooded his body. This wasn’t real. Only an hour ago, he was taking in every minuscule detail of John’s resting face after a perfect night. Only an hour ago, he was committing to memory what John looked like sleeping after a night of desperate fucking. Only an hour ago, everything was exactly what Sherlock had always dreamed.

“John… Mike could have introduced _anybody_ to be my flatmate. He could have never introduced us in the first place-”

“You know… In a way, that would have been better.”

John assembled his clothes, attempting to pull them on, though the task seemed to be taking him a great deal of effort. “How can you say that?” asked Sherlock through a stifled sob. “It would not have been better. John- _love_ is always better.”

The halt in John’s movement, though brief and noncommital, overwhelmed Sherlock’s heart with joy. Capitalizing on the moment, he rushed on: “Yes, we could have ignored our feelings. We could have avoided all this in a million different ways. But you know what we did instead?”

John’s eyes flitted away from his, his hands wrangling with the mangled mass of cloth that was his shirt.

“We _loved_ , John.” The words were a prayer. “And love is always better. You want to know how to walk away from the life you’ve planned on? You choose _love_. Chose love over safety, over any other damn excuse your brain is giving you to walk away.”

“I…” the words were causing him excruciating pain, it was evident. “I can’t.”

For the most glorious of moments, Sherlock had truly believed- was confident beyond words- that it had worked. It caused the impact of John’s final words to slice him deeper than he had thought possible.

“ _John_ ,” breathed Sherlock, the word loaded with a plea that a thousand other words couldn’t possibly convey. It was all he had in him, that one word. One final loaded plea.

That same word that had powered him through two endless years as he infiltrated Moriarty’s network. His name had always been the resounding word that powered his will to live. It was a trigger from apathy to action, from depression to elation. The name of the man before him has sustained his life far more than he could understand.

Perhaps this is what he should have said. Perhaps that is even what he should say now. Perhaps he should explain that while John thought him dead for two years, Sherlock had endured torture and sorrow beyond capacity but had survived it all by recalling John’s existence. He continually reminded himself to survive for John, stay alive to see John, return to London to reunite with John.

Perhaps John saw it as Sherlock leaving him, but Sherlock had never been without John for even a moment. His whole existence since the first moment they were brought together was centered around John.

Could John not see this? Or did he know all this and was still choosing Mary over him? He said Mary was safe; how could he show him that the only constant in Sherlock’s life was the desire to keep John safe and happy?

But he said none of this. Instead, he watched mutely as John put on his shirt, grasped clumsily at his other belongings, and strode toward the door. Sherlock, the man who John believed to be “Mr. Punchline” was at a complete loss of words. He had no idea what the missing ingredient was that would get John to stay.

Hand on the doorknob, John hesitated. His eyes were glued resolutely on his hand gripping the door, his whole body shaking with some hidden tension.

“Sherlock…” the contrast between the consonants and vowels as the name escaped John’s lips were intoxicating, unparalleled in its impact on his whole body.

“John?” said Sherlock in a defeated whisper, not daring to get his hopes up.

A gulp was audible through the space between them, his hand clenching around the items in his left hand a few times. “I’m sorry I called you a machine.”

The words were unexpected, but his response was as emotionless as the machine within him could manage: “Don’t be.”

But still, John remained in place, his shaking body betraying his continued anxiety. “I’m sorry for… well-” his eyes turned to Sherlock’s then, and they held a pain within them that was unmistakably a mirror of his own. He saw a thick tear fall independently down John’s left cheek, the solitary exposure of the suffering he felt. “I’m sorry for this. I do- I love you.”

John was a blur out the door. The sound of the door closing behind him was absolutely the loudest sound to have ever reverberated through this or any universe. The echo of it rang through Sherlock’s heart and mind for hours as he sat motionless in that bed.

The universe was an obscure heap of nothing for ages. It could have been years before the world came back, slowly, into a black-and-white focus. When it did, Sherlock knew only two things: John had made a choice and the choice was not Sherlock.

Certain that he could feel the indent where John had laid that night, he confined himself permanently to the small portion of the bed where he would not disrupt the memory of John. Certain he could feel John’s lips on his when he focused intently enough, he vowed he would never touch them to another. He would never erase the memory of John from his hard drive.

His prism was gone now; never from his heart, nor absent from his life, but gone from his future. He walked around and saw the world in only distant, dull detail.

The wedding would be here before he knew it. He would watch the love of his life seal his fate with another. He would pretend to be happy for the pair of them. Sherlock would need to act the part of Best Man for a man who was pretending to fill the role of Loyal Husband. The pain of it all would certainly rival the pain of watching John leave.

John. John Watson. Dr. John Watson. The one and only love he would ever know.

It turned out they were, in fact, only one second. Passing by one another for one split second. The two had just one second together and the million more miles before him seemed impossible to traverse alone.


	2. Falling Into You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Sherlock's pleas to stay with him, John decides to walk away. The years that follow offer unendurable pain as he attempts to continue his life with the regret that haunts him. 
> 
> One night, after everything has broken apart as much as it could possibly break, John attempts to fix it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! We've switched to John's POV.

The clash of the bedroom door closing behind him was a bullet in his heart. The impact was ineffable, inescapable, and immediate. Every molecule of his being was grieving the loss of a man it had already mourned for too long. The bones in his body ached with longing, his heart was weighing him down with a regret that cemented the blood in his veins, and his mind was destroyed by the contrition that sought to overwhelm every corner of him.

Every footstep away from the door- away from him- was another excruciating stab in his heart.

What had he done?

Sherlock- beautiful, brilliant, entrancing, exciting, hilarious, and human- _loved_ him. What was he doing? Had John not dreamed, wished, and longed for the man since the day it all began? For as long as Sherlock had been in his life, John had been helplessly in love. Why, then, was he walking away? Why was he breaking Sherlock’s heart? Did he even have a reason?

“ _Turn around, you bloody idiot. Take it back- all of it. Stay with him_ ,” his caged mind screamed at him.

He claimed a desire for safety. He claimed love for Mary. He claimed no realistic future for with the consulting detective.

All lies. John’s shame threatened to drown him in its thick intensity. Paired with the dense regret from his too-recent decision, he was unlikely to ever find himself back to solid land.

* * *

_I do._

Crushing regret.

_In short, the two people who love you most in all this world._

Unbearable pain.

_The best and bravest man I know…_

Bone-deep remorse.

_You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right._

Self-hatred.

_Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._

Agony.

The affair with a woman who held no candle to him. The woman- a safe choice even in this turbulent affair- was a meager attempt to achieve something similar to what he left behind that night. His frenzy to choose any option other than the desperate, all-consuming love currently at 221B made his heart ache with longing.

Days dwindled into nights into weeks as John played Domestic Bliss with Mary.

It was unparalleled misery.

* * *

_You made a vow. You swore it._

How could he have let it happen? His rage, ever close to boiling, steamrolled every rational thought in his grief. Beyond reason, he blamed Sherlock.

His mind fought tooth-and-nail to prevent the violent onslaught of blame barreling blindly towards the man. The duality of his emotions were ripping him apart into unrecognizable pieces. He hated Sherlock for breaking his vow, but he hated that he put the weight of that blame on the man. The two undeclared affairs he’d pursued while with her were guilt in his stomach, his unspoken resentment toward her was a hated lump in his throat. Yet she had been his wife. _His wife_. His mind exhausted itself running through the same thoughts, the same rationale. But always it came to the same conclusion: this was Sherlock’s fault.

He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain one ounce of his fury. Nevertheless, it remained.

Unbidden, his mind would still present memories of Sherlock's skin against his, his effervescent eyes penetrating him while his fingers traced lightly against his clavicle.

The memories flushed him with a sickening guilt. John had never been honest with Mary, Sherlock, or even himself about the extent of his affection for the detective.

Now that she was gone beyond death, how could he ever be with him?

There, in that question, was the truth of his anger. He was enraged with Sherlock because he loved Sherlock, always had, but had stayed with Mary anyway. Through this choice, he had bet every future happiness on her being worth what he gave up.

She wasn’t. She wasn’t worth it and he damn near hated her. Hated her for not being Sherlock, hated her for being the source of his reasoning to leave Sherlock, hated her for shooting Sherlock, hated her for manipulating him, lying to him, and dying a death that prevented him from viably hating her for all these things. It wasn’t that she was gone and Sherlock had promised to try to keep them safe. It was that she died without granting him the gift of forgiveness. She died protecting the man he secretly loved, she was a hero, and John could see no end to the reasons why all of that made him a horrible, awful man.

So he suffered- silently. He hated himself, hated the situation he was in, hated his choices and he took it out on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Blinding rage. White-hot fury. Conscious thought wiped out in favor of allowing misdirected violence long bred into his instincts.

A huddled mass curling in on itself, cowering from the physically dominant John. Two pairs of hands grabbing him to forcibly pull him away.

Sherlock on the floor bearing signs of John's abuse.

* * *

“But it is what it is,” said Sherlock into the air above him.

John could not bear to move his hand away from his eyes that were betraying him so thoroughly. The tears came excessively, unforgiving in their progress.

His left hand was resting gently on his upper right arm while the other cupped John's neck. The motion was tender and provoked further tears. Still, he kept his hand over his eyes, far too ashamed to reveal himself.

Then, so slowly John couldn't be certain it was happening, Sherlock's cheek fell slowly upon his head. The hair on his neck stood on end and there was no questioning whether Sherlock would notice the impact.

His body pressed to his, the words _“trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it_ ” were echoing in his own ears. The overpowering knowledge that John had just confessed the smallest portion of his regret to Sherlock felt freeing. He knew Sherlock understood. John had not been talking about Irene nor had Sherlock been thinking about her.

This was what it had always been about: the two of them, together.

Warmth grew between their bodies, his heart beating rapidly in response. The angle of Sherlock's cheekbone against his head was a welcome sensation through the emotional pain that had plagued him for so many years.

An incredible amount of time spent suffering was relieved almost entirely in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. The affection was undeserved while Sherlock still bore the injuries of John’s rage.

“ _Do it_ ,” whispered the voice in his head that commanded matters of his heart. “ _Do it now._ ”

With steadiness indicative of his years of training as a surgeon, he moved one hand around the waist of the man next to him while the other, abandoning its shield of his eyes, reached up to his shoulder. Lightly, he lifted his head and felt the resting cheek of the man above him fall unexpectedly before he caught himself.

Sherlock’s eyes glinted in the dim light of the flat. Wide and loaded with emotion, they stared directly into John’s and this- this intense eye contact- was more intimate than any physical touch they’d ever shared. John’s eyes, exposing a terrifying vulnerability and marked with tears, met Sherlock’s understanding eyes to convey dizzying passion. He couldn’t bear to blink, lest he miss even one minuscule moment of this connection with him.

This man. Sherlock Holmes. His Sherlock.

Years. _Years_. Years wasted, years regretting, years suppressing, years resisting, years and years and years.

It didn’t have to be that way anymore. He could confess his sins and plead for forgiveness from Sherlock. John could choose- here and now- to cross the bridge. To tell Sherlock everything, to break down and succumb to exposing every drop of regret he’d been dwelling in.

Their eyes were still on one another, their hands placed on their bodies, their physical proximity entwined and about to be so in one additional way.

Allowing his eyes to droop closed, he leaned forward to connect his lips with the enchanting cupid’s bow that was so near.

It happened so suddenly, he couldn’t say how he was suddenly stumbling forward. One moment, he had been leaning forward, and the next it seemed Sherlock had simply vanished from the air before him. John’s eyes snapped open, placing one foot ahead of him to prevent himself from falling over. His neck still burned with the contact where Sherlock’s hand had been upon it.

John turned around wildly to see Sherlock striding casually into the kitchen, his back turned to him. Face flushing scarlet, John straightened himself up and quickly used the fabric of his shirt to dry the dampness of his face. His hands clenched several times, his shoulders adjusting to a new posture that felt uncomfortable as he stood there confused in the middle of their sitting room.

“Er-” John started uncomfortably. “Everything alright, Sherlock?”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock in a tone that suggested the question had been an unimportant one. “Tea?”

Humiliation flooded through him. He shuffled on his feet and looked down at the rug beneath his feet just to have something to focus on that wasn’t Sherlock’s indifferent form dancing around the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he murmured in response. “Sounds lovely, thanks.”

It was an uncomfortable silence, standing there stewing his rejection. It hurt more than he could have thought. It seemed a pattern, this underestimation of emotional pain. He stood in near stillness as the detective walked around the kitchen to prepare tea that John did not sincerely desire.

The room was too dark, now- too cold. The place felt empty and interwoven with his discomfort. The dingy light was pressure on his aching soul and he longed for the relief that was Sherlock’s arms. Why- _why_ \- did grant himself permission to try?

John’s tears were always hard-earned. They were not easy to draw out and he could count on one hand the times they flowed freely in recent memory. It seemed that Sherlock was involved in all the instances. Yet now- fresh from an unstoppable wave, they threatened him again at the injustice of the story Sherlock and John shared.

Sherlock approached with a cup in each hand, his eyes cast deliberately downward as he approached John.

His limbs were being uncooperative, his arm swinging up in a jerky motion as he lifted one to receive the tea being brought to him. Yet Sherlock did not proceed to offer the tea he had generously made. Rather, he met John motion with a surprising jerk that sent liberal amounts of liquid flying from the saucers. His face was turned away, his whole body closed off to John where he stood dumbfounded.

The few seconds that passed between them in silence were millennia to John. The realization was a slap of bitter truth and it spread mortification through his entire being.

A flinch.

Sherlock had flinched from him.

The awful memory played before him, putting pins into his heart as he saw a monster that looked like himself beating Sherlock Holmes until he was physically prevented from continuing the assault.

“Sherlock-” he choked out, the word mutilated by emotion.

“It’s fine,” he murmured in response, his eyes cast downward. He thrust the cup into John's hands and walked away before he could say anything further. More similar to a wounded animal than any man he had ever seen, John’s heart wrenched with regret.

His tongue was tied watching Sherlock walk with attempted-grace back toward his bedroom. John’s mind was muddled with thoughts. Those thoughts of regret that plagued his life, those thoughts of things he wanted to say, and those thoughts of apologies that needed to be cried into the void that had become their relationship. These thoughts ricocheted around his head until they were all-consuming and threatened to obliviate him.

He cursed his own inability to get the words out. Was he going to allow this strained, half-friendship to exist simply because he was unable to articulate the depth of his own emotions?

Sherlock. His Sherlock.

“Sherlock- wait,” he called, his voice shaking with emotion. Whether it was terror of what he was about to do or horror at the prospect of losing him, he wasn’t sure.

“I said emotional entanglement would complete you- as- as a person. I meant it.”

Sherlock was stopped in his steps, but his gently curved back was still turned to the desperate John whose tongue struggled to form the words swimming just out of reach. That back, John knew, was host to a disarray of scar tissue tragically delicate in its grooves and ridges.

The image swam in his head, that first night John had slid his fingers under the hem of his lover’s shirt to discover a rugged surface under his fingers. He had stopped, kissing each one with whispered apologies.

The memory gave him courage.

“Sherlock, I am so sorry,” he whimpered through a trembling lip.

Sherlock didn’t move but stood perfectly still for so long, he wasn’t sure he would ever react. “I told you it’s fine.”

“No,” John practically shouted. He took a deep breath, unable to move from all the effort it took to say what he needed to. “No, it’s not. It’s not fine. None of this, Sherlock, is ‘fine.’ This is a mess that I don’t know how to begin cleaning up.”

The words rang in the thin air around them, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest. When Sherlock turned around, one hand still on the knob, his heart halted completely and began flipping in his seemingly-hallow chest.

“How do you clean up any other mess?”

The question stunned him. Hesitating, he began, “well- I- I’d begin by picking up what I could manage.”

A quiet “hmm” escaped Sherlock before he turned back to the door, his hand turning the knob.

“Sherlock!” cried John, the panic rising in his voice. He half-ran to Sherlock’s side, his hand landing on top of his over the door knob. Gentle but certain, he prevented his mate from turning the knob. “I am sorry.” The words were a dry sob in his throat. “I am so fucking sorry.”

It seemed Sherlock was unable to meet the pleading gaze directed toward him. “Sorry for what?”

“All of it. Every bloody last thing.” Before he could stop it, the words cascaded out of him. “I’m sorry for blaming you for her death. I’m sorry for beating- God, am I sorry, Sherlock. I am _so_ sorry for what I did to you in that mortuary. I am sorry for doubting you, for isolating you, for treating you like you’re anything less than the most important person on this Goddamn planet. Mostly, Sherlock, I am sorry for leaving you that night when you begged me to stay. I’m sorry for hurting you, choosing imagined safety over you. I’m sorry for leading you on, sorry you had to go to the wedding after the fact. I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to admit to everyone else what I’ve always known: you, and you alone, are the only thing I’ve ever truly loved in my whole life.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained downcast, blinking furiously against the onslaught of words. His mouth a hard line as John spoke, the apologies bouncing off of a stoic face that was a steel mask of indifference.

“Anything else?”

The curt words were a fire in his heart.

“Anyth- _Christ, Sherlock_. Is that all you have to say?”

His hand lay still upon Sherlock’s, the contact growing cold as they remained there. Growing, like their relationship, uncomfortable and strained.

Those eyes held all the beauty of the galaxy and just as much emptiness in that moment. His irises were blank, wrought with an apathy that hurt more than retaliation ever could.

His voice, monotonous and dismissive, answered after a lengthy silence: “What is it that you would like me to say, John?”

“Any reaction you’re privy to would be great, actually.” The anger was burning in his veins, the audacity of this reaction toward his confessions. Sherlock knew- he _knew_ \- how difficult these things were for him. What was he playing at?

Yet even with the rising anger, he felt shame. It was woven into his blood, this quick-rising anger. He couldn’t understand why the man before him was reacting as such, but he knew he wasn’t angry at Sherlock; he was embarrassed at his refusal to reciprocate and he was turning it into a manageable emotion.

John put incredible effort into controlling his anger, working the muscles in his body to relax, and tell himself that Sherlock’s reaction had no impact on the need for the words in John’s mind to escape. He needed to continue his confessions even if they were not met with eager ears.

“There are things that- Things I never said. Things I need to say, things you need to hear.”

His right eyebrow arched in response, but his face remained otherwise stoic. He removed his hand where it sat beneath John’s own, drawing it away as he strode down the hallway. Perplexed, John watched as he walked back into the sitting room, the soft _thump_ accompanying what must have been Sherlock taking a seat.

John hesitated only one half of one split moment after hearing him sit before following suit. Hands active in their wringing, he walked until he stood right next to his own chair. Before him, Sherlock was sitting with his legs crossed delicately, the dangling leg bouncing back and forth as his eyes searched John with skepticism. His hands were steepled beneath his nose, his body language screaming that John was under every scrutiny that Sherlock Holmes was capable of.

John allowed his fingers to trill against the familiar fabric of his red chair, dragging his fingers along the material to feel the creases beneath his skin. A delightful distraction for one moment, but piercing eyes were preventing the motion from stalling what must come.

He met the scanning eyes of Sherlock again, and he knew he would receive no prompt to begin. Quietly clearing his throat, he looked up at the ceiling as if the answers would be right above him, able to be gasped and presented to achieve resolution.

When the answers were not presented there, he steeled his courage, gripped his hands into fists that instantly hurt his own palms, and took a deep breath.

“Sherlock, I have nearly no words to express to you the guilt that has plagued me every living moment of my life ever since I walked out that door. The moment- the _moment_ , Sherlock- that I put one foot out that door, I knew I would spend the rest of my days regretting it. And I have. The more steps I took, the more I hated myself for my decision. The self-hatred grew until it consumed me. I grieved as though I had lost you all over again. I went deep in denial when you spoke at my wedding and played that song. The depth of my emotions betrayed my denial, however. Those beautiful words you crafted, the long confession of love that I knew I had given up on… drove me damn near tears.”

“Then I was angry. I was so angry, Sherlock. I was angry at myself, of course, and I was angry at you. I had no reason to be, of course. But my anger was inescapable. I chose her and I was indescribably furious that she wasn’t you. I hated myself.”

“I bargained with the the forces that be: If I could only have you in my life- as a best mate, as a business partner, in any capacity- then I could be happy. If I could find another lover outside of Mary, I could fill the voids within myself after I lost you. I fell into depression when I realized you were out of my reach and no one could fill that void.”

“But I never reached acceptance, Sherlock. In many ways, I’ve never accepted that you couldn’t be mine. When we met, when I believed you dead, when I was married, and even now- I have never- nor will I ever- accept that I am meant to live this life without you.”

“So I went to that night often- in my mind, I mean. I recalled the way you felt, the silky feeling of your skin, your perfect lips, the feeling of safety of life in your arms… I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I did to you- to _us_ \- when I walked out that door. I will never be as happy anywhere as I am every moment I’m with you.”

“And I know I’ve said it, and you’ll hear me say it for the rest of my life, but I cannot express to you how sorry I am. I’m sorry for hurting you, for blaming you, for hitting- for assault-”

A sob escaped his throat, the memory of what he did overwhelming him. It was a horror of indescribable magnitude. He was incapable of comprehending its cruelty. It was suddenly apparent to him that his face was damp with tears, though he couldn’t know when they began.

They had both been hurt more than any two people should. Both been through more than either ever should have. John felt the blame of it all, the full weight of the loss he’d caused them. With one trembling step forward, his legs gave way and he was on his knees less than a meter away from where Sherlock sat. His body was wracking itself with silent sobs, his body trembling from the anxiety of being so emotionally exposed.

Sherlock was no longer looking at him, but down at his own knees. Though his face was unreadable, it seemed to lose a bit of its edge and John’s chest eased the slightest amount.

 _“Please, Sherlock. Please, please forgive me. Please_ ,” urged the voice in John’s head. He willed the forgiveness into the universe as though it would occur through sheer will.

He wanted to grab him, kiss him, hold every bit of his body within his own, and spend the rest of his life confessing his unrelenting love for the brilliant man before him.

“Why should I believe you?” croaked Sherlock from a voice uneven with untold emotion.

“Because it’s the truth,” whispered John, his eyes continuing to spill tears as they searched imploringly at the man so cold before him.

Slowly, Sherlock’s hands fell from below his nose to rest on his knees, his knuckles white with the tension of gripping them.

“You recall that night?”

“Of course,” choked out John.

“You recall, then, that you’ve made similar confessions before.” His eyes were cast down, his tone cold and distant.

John’s stomach dropped in fear. “I meant it,” he whispered in a panic. “But I was a coward. I was scared- too scared- of what it would mean to be with you.”

“You confessed,” said Sherlock as though John had not spoken, “and then you left. I was not worth it to you- not worth the risk. I was worthy of being used and not worthy of continued love.”

“No,” choked out John in what was a truly pathetic sob. “No, it was not about you at all. It was me- all me.”

Sherlock was perfectly still, no retort for John’s admission of guilt. His hands were white and red with pressure on his knees, his face screwed up in forced-neutrality.

His knees shuffled awkwardly toward him until his waist was pressed against those legs that always made him weak, his left hand on top of Sherlock’s and his right on the armrest of his chair.

“Sherlock.” The word was a whisper, a beg, a cry for forgiveness. “I love you.”

Seeing a sudden moisture in his eyes was all it took to provide John with enough courage. Lifting himself up a bit, he raised his tear-soaked face to Sherlock’s own and brought his lips up to the tense cupid’s bow that entranced him until they were separated by only the distance of a hair. He didn’t move, didn’t force the connection. He waited only a moment to see if Sherlock would oblige and then-

Bursts of color appeared behind John’s eyelids at the connection. Sherlock’s lips moved to meet his and softened after the shortest moment, molding around his own in an infinitely intimate moment that John never wanted be free from.

John moved his lips slowly, softly. He felt the movement mirrored, their motions entirely in-sync just as they always were. The tenderness held in that moment caused an almost-painful wrench in his heart. The love he held was inescapable and completely unrivaled. He wanted to believe, in that moment, that they were the first two people on Earth to ever experience this: true, undying, consuming love.

Sherlock’s tongue grazed along the outside of his lower lip and the resulting summersaults performed by his insides were pleasurable in their intensity. No one else, his whole life, had ever caused such a reaction from any level of physical intimacy. Here- with this perfect man- everything was heightened. The sensation of the lightest tongue flick awoke every nerve in his body.

He reciprocated the motion, opening his mouth against Sherlock’s to move his tongue inside the man. Their tongues brushed together, their lips pressing together with more vigor than before. On his side, he felt Sherlock’s hand twitch and John needed no further cue: maintaining contact with his lips, he rose clumsily from the floor and wrapped one leg at a time around the man’s hips until he was straddling him while Sherlock’s hands lifted tenderly to rest upon either side of John’s waist.

He could taste his own tears upon Sherlock’s now, though perhaps he was tasting Sherlock’s. He was aware of a tremor that passed through him and wondered distantly if it was a tremor of pleasure or if he was perhaps crying. John was, he knew it. This moment was so perfect, tears fell slowly out of his closed eyes as Sherlock enveloped every part of him.

Pushing his pelvis aggressively against Sherlock’s and leaning his torso along every part they could touch, John deepened the kiss and explored every crevice of Sherlock’s perfect mouth. He couldn’t tell what was his breath and what was his own and didn’t care. He wanted him- wanted every last bit of him. He kissed him like it was the last time he ever would.

He pulled back the smallest amount to bite Sherlock’s upper lip, needing to act upon the urge he’d had all these years.

“John,” muttered Sherlock. Panic rose within him because the word was not one of ecstasy, but one of hesitation.

He released his lips and pulled back to look into Sherlock’s eyes and froze. There were, in fact, tears that had spilled. Only now did he sense his hands had removed themselves from his sides, his face a mask of pain that John couldn’t comprehend.

“What’s wrong?” He lifted a hand to gingerly wipe tears from a face bruised by John’s hands and feet.

He flinched away from the touch, a bolt of hurt striking John’s insides.

Sherlock was far, far away from him. His eyes were unfocused to his right, a deliberate move to avoid looking at him. His hands were awkwardly folded around each other over his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated in anguish, moving his head in an attempt to catch his eyes.

“I do not wish to be used like this.”

A wrecking ball decimated every hope carefully built through John’s heart over the course of the past few minutes.

“I’m not using you, Sherlock. You have to believe me- I mean it. My entire life has simply been leading up until the moment I met you. I have spent my whole life falling into you. You are my safe harbor. I love you wholly and completely. In every universe, in every timeline, in every version of this world that exists, I love you. In a thousand lifetimes, I will love you in every one. There are no words available in existence to tell you how ardently I want you and your companionship for the rest of my days.”

Desperation rang in his voice, the full weight of meaning supported by the sincerity he could not fake. Sherlock’s head turned to his, those beautiful eyes staring at him with uncensored terror.

“I am scared,” confessed Sherlock in little more than a whisper, “to give in now and discover tomorrow, next week, next year, or twenty years from now that this is fake. I am scared you will leave me, chose another, or get bored and I will have live knowing that I’ve lost you twice.”

John’s head fell down against his own chest, a great sorrow threatening to crush him. “Is there anything I can do, my love, to convince you of my sincerity?”

When there was not immediately an answer, he rose his head again to find Sherlock’s eyes penetrating him.

“Will you tell anybody of your love? Are you scared for the world to know?”

“My love, I will tell everybody in every way accessible,” John vowed.

“Will you be here tomorrow morning?”

“I will be here every morning and I will love you infinitely,” he vowed.

“Will you remain loyal even when I get distant and rude?”

“I will never venture away from your love, Sherlock. You are my sun and I am planet revolving around you. I depend on your pull, your warmth, your shining brilliance.”

“Will I ever suffer the pain of losing you?”

“My love, I will fight back death itself to ensure I always return to you.”

Imploring eyes searched John’s for honesty. “Promise?”

“I swear, Sherlock.”

Their eyes scanned one another, confident in their knowledge that this was it. Their lives had been torn apart, each of them broken in every imaginable way. Now, together, was the beginning of the rest of their lives. They would rebuild the shambles of it all as an unbreakable unit. Their love would work, slowly, to pick up the disaster that lay around them.

He knew three profound truths: He loved Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes loved him, and nothing in the whole universe would ever pull them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like smut, congratulations! You've reached the end. They live happily ever after and slowly begin to heal themselves and each other. If you DO like smut, the next chapter is just porn. Continue to the final chapter and enjoy.
> 
> I promised a post-S4 fic, but I personally align myself with the belief that The Final Problem wasn't real. So to me, the infamous "hug scene" is one of the last of the S4 canon. Therefore, I think this qualifies as a follow through on my promise. (Please let me know if you're interested in reading metas about how TFP is TAB from John's perspective.)
> 
> Raise your hand if you caught all the references to "confessions" here!  
> ("I never realised confessing would be so enjoyable"/"apparently he can’t stop confessing"/"confessions" being a huge part of TLD in general).
> 
> Thank you all for reading and thank you to everyone who left a comment and inspired me to write this sequel. If you are reading this, know that I appreciate you immensely.
> 
> If you're interested, follow me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com (writing/Johnlock blog)  
> OR  
> thezefronposter.tumblr.com (main blog)


	3. Look At Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story picks up immediately after the last sentence of the last chapter. Originally, it was going to be all one chapter but I wanted to separate them in the event someone wasn't interested in the smut portion.
> 
> Enjoy!

Then they morphed together, clinging desperately to one another as their lips met with ferocious intensity. Sherlock, abandoning caution, took John in his arms with a passion previously unrevealed. His arms wrapped around John tightly, his head was tilted back to reach John’s lips but it wasn’t enough: he needed more. Their lips were sewn so tightly together that it nearly hurt. They needed this- each other- more violently than either had ever needed anything.

With a burst of flavor, the cut above Sherlock’s lip split open and introduced a distinctly metal taste in their shared kiss.

“Oh my God,” mumbled John against his lips, attempting to pull away. “I am so sorr-”

“Doesn’t matter,” growled Sherlock, lifting one hand to the back of John’s head to keep them linked together. The pair moved against one another, their mouths exploring and nipping until John was acutely aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers were.

Sherlock sucked on his lower lip and finished with a sharp nip that aroused a groan of pain-induced ecstasy from deep within John. A burst of pain arose from the spot, and a growl of laughter escaped.

“Payback?” teased John through heaving breaths.

“If that pleases you, Doctor.”

The man’s lips moved to kiss the corner of his mouth, traveling along his jaw, and down his neck. John’s veins were singing with joy, blood rushing to his face and pelvis in uncontrolled pleasure.

His mouth formed suction along his neck as he traversed downward and John threw his head back to revel in the sensation. Each suction was an untold pleasure, each kiss resulting in a grumble of encouragement.

Without even thinking about it, he began to grind his hips against Sherlock’s, pleased to find as he did so that he could feel the other man’s hard form around his movements. He could hear Sherlock’s breath hitch at the motion, and the ability to impact him in such a way gave indescribable satisfaction. He continued to move, reveling in how it caused Sherlock’s kisses to grow more frantic, small moans leaving him every time John rolled himself over Sherlock’s erection.

John raised his hands to run through curls crafted by God. His fingers wound around and through the mess of hair that he’d spent years wanting to pull-

Both hands in his hair, he formed fists with the jet-black curls and pulled Sherlock’s head back from where it had been making its way south from his collarbone. His face was flushed, eyes fluttering as a trembling “oh” came from John pulling his hair back.

“You like that?” John whispered into his neck as he allowed himself to take his turn exploring the taste of the detective’s skin.

“Yes,” panted Sherlock in response.

“The hair pulling or this,” he said, sucking lightly on the thin skin of his neck on the last word.

“Both!” gasped Sherlock, rocking his hips into John’s own.

He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand this proximity to Sherlock with so little of their skin touching. With his surgeon’s hands, he worked to undo every button on Sherlock’s shirt with a speed that impressed them both. When the work was done, John pulled away to appreciate the flawless marble body beneath and the action of removing himself resulted in a whimper from the man, now denied kisses.

It was worth this temporary gap of passion: his chest exposed by a shirt and silk robe that were both falling to the side. Sherlock’s head still hung off the chair, rolled back from the euphoria of the moment. He was so beautiful, it seemed impossible that he could be real.

He wanted to put his mouth all over every last centimeter of his perfect body.

It was impossible, seeing him like this and not kissing him.

With clumsy haste, he got off the man and the action was followed by mumbled protestations, but they weren’t long-lived. Sliding off the chair, he got on his knees between Sherlock’s long legs. He looked hungrily at the bulge before him, his own hunger demanding satisfaction that very moment.

He would begin to make up for his wrong-doings right now.

Sherlock’s eyebrows were stitched together looking down at John until, finally, looked deep into his eyes and whispered, “May I remove your clothes and suck you off?”

Pupils impossibly large, he nodded fervently and hoarsely replied, “Yes. God, yes. Please.” His hands were clutching at the armrests, his body writhing for want of John’s touch.

John’s fingers worked to undo the belt and trousers, freeing them rather ferociously from where they were caging what John wanted.

His pale, thin legs spread for miles on either side of him and John groaned at the outline of his cock beneath his navy blue pants. His mouth came down upon the exposed skin of Sherlock’s stomach, landing teasing kisses around the area until he caught the elastic waistband of the underwear between his teeth. A glance up showed him Sherlock’s frustrated expression when John began to pull the pair down with his teeth just a bit before allowing it to snap back into place when he released it.

“Not yet,” teased John.

His mouth wandered over the outline of Sherlock over the cloth, withholding the pleasure he knew Sherlock wanted to badly.

“Please,” begged Sherlock in a wildly erotic whine. “Please, Captain.”

A zing of electricity shot through him. God, that was hot.

“Not yet,” he said with a false growl because being called “Captain” had been so extraordinarily hot, he needed Sherlock as badly as Sherlock needed him now.

With a swift, hurried motion, he removed the pants until the full length of Sherlock’s cock rose before him.

John placed a teasing kiss along the base, gently sucking on each ball until Sherlock was rightfully squirming for want to be sucked. He flicked his tongue along the underside of him, refusing to give him exactly what he wanted- yet.

When he reached the head with his tongue, a long, low moan came out of Sherlock and his hands rose to run through John’s hair. He flicked his tongue one- two- three times along the head in a way he _knew_ would drive him wild.

He was correct. The whole body beneath him was shifting with desire. When his tongue dragged slowly along the head for good effect, Sherlock’s legs tensed and he whimpered- _actually_ whimpered.

“John,” he gasped in a whining tone. “ _Please_.” The word was an unabashed beg and John fought back a smile when he remembered a time when Sherlock has asserted he’d never begged for anything in his life.

He was begging now. Begging for _John_.

It was too much for them both. Finally, John wrapped his mouth around the long cock that was dripping with desire. He went down slowly, making sure to withhold maximum pleasure by working his way up and down the shaft in incremental pieces until, finally, John’s lips were touching the base of Sherlock’s cock and he could feel the entirety of Sherlock’s attraction inside him.

“Oh my God, oh my God, _Oh my God_ ,” moaned Sherlock with increasing volume. His hands were knots in John’s hair, though he suspected he didn’t know he was doing it.

Eyes closed, he focused on the taste of him- the taste of Sherlock Holmes. What a wonderful taste it was, too.

His mouth traversed up and down the expanse of him until he was dizzy with the sensation of him. He opened his eyes to steady himself and saw Sherlock mouthing words he couldn’t hear into the air, his eyes fluttering rapidly as his eyes rolled back. The sight was so hot, he sped up his actions, working his tongue more aggressively against him as he did so. Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, he watched the impact of the new speed hit him. Hands grabbing his hair more tightly, he gave a feeble thrust of his hips against John’s mouth but he seemed to lack enough strength to put any real effort into it.

Removing his lips, he dragged his tongue slowly from the base of Sherlock’s dick to the head, where he covered it in a new layer of thick saliva.

Sherlock clearly liked this.

“Oh, _OH_ , yes. Please, Captain, please, please, please…” the words fell into nothing more than passionate moans as John consumed him once more.

Sherlock was close- John knew it. His twitching beneath him was uncontrolled and wild, begging for sweet release. John would grant him release.

Raising one hand just beneath where his mouth was moving up and down, he gripped the cock with just enough pressure to cause contrast against his mouth. He moved his hand in pace with his mouth, gathering speed while he worked his tongue over the head every time he reached the top. His hand would fall away smoothly as his mouth reached the base of him and rejoined as he went up to maximize pleasure.

“ _John!_ ” bellowed Sherlock in a breathy voice, and John felt hot, thick cum fill his mouth. His body rocked with intense pleasure as waves of fluid spilled from him, his hands holding John’s head on him. He had no complaints about this, feeling like he’d waited years to be able to suck Sherlock off like this. They hadn’t gotten around to this bit last time they were together. His tongue traveled the still-pulsing cock to get every last drop of cum he could garner from Sherlock.

When his body finally went limp under John, his hands released their hold and John gingerly removed himself from the still-erect cock. He swallowed the massive load, enjoying the feeling it was it went slowly down his throat.

“John,” whispered Sherlock, his whole body limp from orgasm and voice weak with the effort of speaking even that one word.

John hushed him, running one hand gently among the thigh on his right, a love swelling in his heart that he could barely contain.

“It’s your turn,” Sherlock mumbled in a nearly indiscernible way. He made one feeble attempt to sit up but seemed to have lost control over his limbs.

Hushing him again, John placed one hand gently against his shoulder to keep him in place. “It can wait, Sherlock. Don’t push yourself.”

“But you-” he protested with closed eyes.

“It can wait a bit. Sherlock, you and I- in this moment- are just one second. But we have a million more seconds, a million days, a million years, and a million miles to go.”

A smile spread slowly across the perfect, swollen mouth and his head raised enough to make eye contact with John, still on his knees before him.

“I said that,” he said, eyes alight and voice purring with happiness.

“You did.”

“I love you, Dr. John Watson.”

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and thank you to everyone who left a comment and inspired me to write this sequel. If you are reading this, know that I appreciate you immensely.
> 
> If you're interested, follow me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com (writing/Johnlock blog)  
> OR  
> thezefronposter.tumblr.com (main blog)

**Author's Note:**

> I cried buckets and buckets while writing and editing this work. I both hope and don't hope it has the same effect on my readers.
> 
> Please do yourself a favor and listen to the song this is inspired by. It is insanely beautiful, a true work of art. Also, I was a bit inspired by another song from the same musical for part of their conversation.  
> From the soundtrack "The Bridges Of Madison County" by Jason Robert Brown:  
> -One Second and a Million Miles (Performed by Kelli O'Hara and Steven Pasquale)  
> -Always Better (Performed by Kelli O'Hara)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, I would recommend also reading my other work "The Colour of Your Eyes," which I consider an unofficial prologue to this story. (In other words, no direct relation between the two, but related in my mind as I wrote them.)
> 
> EDIT 5 NOVEMBER 2018:  
> This was originally supposed to be a one-shot but I produced a sequel because the writing muses struck me. If you love pain and don't need closure, THE END! If you love pain but also would appreciate closure (because the closure is painful, too), please continue reading. Thank you!


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